


Totally Screwed

by trascendenza



Category: Invisible Man, Seven Days (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-05
Updated: 2007-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-03 16:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trascendenza/pseuds/trascendenza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take one part world apocalypse, one part quicksilver-mad invisible man, and one part time traveler with a mission, shake thoroughly and pour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Totally Screwed

**Author's Note:**

> This is just utter ridiculousness.

"You know you want it, flyboy," he said, his lanky frame awkwardly crushed by the cramped quarters so that he was looming over Frank.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Frank said, trying to double check the controls. He was always extra paranoid when they didn't have a full team helping him backstep, and now he only had this red-eyed freak to work the controls on the other end. He wasn't sure if he trusted this guy as far as he could throw him, to be honest.

"Oh, I think you know. I think you know exactly what I'm talking about." And then that skinny little frame of his, which had looked unintimidating from a distance, was pressed up against Frank's back.

"You can't be serious." Frank shifted, trying to look the guy in the eyes, remembering too late that, if anything, that could only make things worse.

"Well, let's just see about that, shall we?" And then Fawkes's crotch was right against his stomach, and it was unmistakable how serious he was.

"I have a mission to complete here," Frank tried in vain to maneuver around Fawkes but it was just too small, and Fawkes apparently had no concept of personal space. "You remember the part where the whole world was killed off, buddy?"

Fawkes quirked his head to the side and pretended to consider before breaking out in what could only be termed a predatory grin. "I remember. But me and my little friend here have some more pressing needs." A hand snaked between their fronts and gripped Frank, hard. "And I think little Frankie Jr. Flyboy here wants to come out and play, too."

"I. have. a. mission." Frank ground out, making a mental note to have a little chat with his traitorous hips which were rising up to Fawkes's touch despite himself.

"C'mon." Fawkes's long fingers wound tighter around his cock through the thick denim. "You know you want to." He leaned down, bringing their lips close. "It's not as if the world won't still need saving after we're done."

"Fuck." Frank didn't know what it was about this guy, but he still had the taste of death in his mouth, and hell if this proposition wasn't looking better.

And that, in itself, was a testament to how pathetic his life was.

But he recognized something here—the desperation in Fawkes's movements, the strain under his cat-like motions—this was a man who knew what it was like to be trapped.

That was more than he had in common with most of the people he slept with.

"To hell with it," he said, pushing Fawkes back into the seat and straddling him. If they were going to do this, they might as well do it in style.

"Oooh, rough," Fawkes purred, sliding his hands up Frank's back. "Just the way I like it."

"You got a dirty mouth, huh?" Frank chuckled, stripping off his shirt, leaning back and admiring as Fawkes slunk out of his. Where Frank was bulk, this guy was whipcord thin, corded muscles and liquid grace.

"I think you like it," Fawkes said, grabbing Frank by the back of the neck and pulling him down for a kiss, gyrating his hips insistently as he did so.

"Maybe I do," Frank panted as he struggled with Fawkes's strange buttons—what the fuck were these, anyway, disco pants?—grunting with satisfaction when he figured it out and wrapped a hand around Fawkes.

"Yeah." Fawkes's red eyes widened, looking scarier than ever, and Frank almost dropped the other man's cock when a wave of chill air engulfed him. "Now the real fun starts."

"What the—"

Fawkes trailed cold fingers over his hot chest, and it was the strangest sensation, like water evaporating into steam when it touched fire.

"I told you." Fawkes laughed as the cold spread, and shit, was it—coating him? And his vision suddenly went black and white, rendering Fawkes in strange glowing colors before him. "I'm the invisible fucking man."

Frank let out a huge breath, tingling all over as his skin adjusted to the raising-hair-on-the-back-of-his-neck feeling.

"C'mere." Darien rose, stepping out of his pants, leaning back against the console.

Frank wanted to ask what the hell was going on, whether he was becoming a freak like this red-eyed Fawkes character, but they crashed together, hands scrabbling, and Fawkes was wrenching Frank's jeans off and kissing him so hard that he felt the roots of his teeth complaining, and everywhere they touched it was sparkling slick frost.

"C'mon, Frank. Show me what you got." Darien raised a leg and looped it into Frank's elbow, laying himself back on the console.

"Shit, doesn't that hurt?" Frank asked even as he adjusted to wrap Fawkes's leg behind his back, levering the man's thighs apart by wedging his hips in.

"So good." Fawkes's laugh bordered on maniacal, and his legs clenched around Frank's hips, leaving no room for retreat.

"Whatever you say, man." He reached his hand down, trying to spread some of the wetness from the tip of his head for lubricant, but even half-crazed as he was he could tell it wouldn't be enough.

"I think we might have to take it slow—" He started to explain, but suddenly Fawkes's hand was there, wrapped around the whole length of him, covering him in another layer of melting frost-fire.

"Hurry," Fawkes said, jutting his hips lower, "it won't last long."

Frank took him at his word, legs trembling as he crouched to get the angle, pushing into Fawkes with a throat-tearing groan, overwhelmed by mixture of warm, cool, prickling, starbursts. Fawkes's legs urged him faster, one hand reaching up and gripping him by the neck—this guy was some kind of fucking contortionist, and damned if it wasn't one of the hottest things Frank had ever seen.

And then he started talking, a stream of meaningless words, most of them obscene.

Frank felt like he was being assaulted with every sense—the sweat beading on his skin pooled in chilled pockets all over his body, the sight of Fawkes stretched out over his console, luminescent, head thrown back and all his muscles straining closer to Frank—and then the last straw, Fawkes's constant stream of talk, his voice low and knowing, taking no pains to hide his enjoyment—it was just—just too—

"Shit!" Frank cried, digging his fingers into Fawkes's hips and holding on, moving with blind ferocity, closing his eyes and being overtaken by the sounds of Fawkes's pleading words, the smack of skin on skin, flooding with tension, with white-hot scalding need, and he pushed, pushed into it, harder, screaming, breaking apart, all of his muscles unraveling and the tingling layer flaking off his skin as he came pressed against Fawkes, vision back to normal except for the flickering white spots in his periphery.

"God," he exhaled against Fawkes's neck, unable to rise just yet. His legs were threatening to give as is.

"Jesus wept," Fawkes said cheerfully, looking no worse for the wear despite the lacerations that must be peppering his back from where he'd slammed into the equipment.

Fawkes started squirming after a few minutes and they extricated themselves, a sticky and sweaty mess that reeked of sex.

"So what's your mission?" He asked, not even making a pretense of putting on clothing.

Wasn't much point in lying. "The usual. Saving the world."

Fawkes nodded. "Been there, done that." He looked around the inside of the cube. "Do you have any video games around here?"

Frank, bemused, gave Fawkes his room key and told him where to find the Xbox.

Setting up the remote pilot controls, he couldn't help laughing. Ramsey thought he was mentally unstable? Why they ever let that guy out of his room he couldn't tell.

Well. Assuming he didn't try to seduce the guards.

Programming in the last of the protocols, he didn't even look at the building; he'd seen too many apocalypses. His quota was all filled for one lifetime.

He just smiled, thinking that even if something went wrong, at least he'd gotten to have invisible sex once before he died. That had to count for something.


End file.
